It’s year six at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A seventeen-year-old dark-haired witch with a certain je ne sais quoi wrestles with her insides as she is prepares to do something incredibly demeaning, but unfortunately entirely necessary.

“Hey Potter?” I clenched my fists as I approached Satan, who was reading the Daily Prophet across the library.

He looked up at me, already smirking. Of course. “What can I possibly do for you?”

Potter’s smirk grew wider. “Dear me, can this be true? You need my help with something?”

I glared at him. “Answer the question punk. Please,” I added as an afterthought. I was asking him for a favor after all.

He laughed sending his stupid messy brown hair all over his stupid perpetually existing forehead. “Can’t help you there. I haven’t done it myself.”

I groaned, letting myself fall into the chair next to him. “Why am I surprised? You’re useless Potter.”

“A fact, quite well known from what I hear,” he grinned, leaning back in his seat and setting his paper aside now that his entertainment for the day was here.

I glanced at him, confused by his lack of reaction to my insult. “You take pride in that,” I stated, crossing my arms against my chest.

He shrugged, tugging at his hair. “You tell me, what else am I supposed to take pride in? The list isn’t very long.”

I shook my head, smiling slightly in spite of myself. “James Potter doesn’t have much to be proud of? Stop the presses!”

Potter let out a bark of laughter. “Cockiness is not one of my attributes, no matter what I present to the general public.”

“Then why do you present it to the public at all?” I asked, picking at the worn threads of his chair.

He smirked. “’Cause girls love it.”

I glared at him, irritated. He rolled his eyes. “I’m just kidding. I just act like I’m arrogant. I don’t actually think I am.”

I rolled my eyes. It was like a little eye-rolling extravaganza over here. “I can’t figure you out Potter.”

“I know, it’s exhilarating to watch,” he replied, smiling to himself.

I – what else? – rolled my eyes and stood up. “Well as much as I’d love to stay and try and exhilarate you some more, I really do need to finish my Defense essay.”

“Exhilarate me later,” he nodded in mock seriousness. “And may the force be with you,” he called as I walked away.

I chose to not deign that with a reply.

“I really don’t get it Carrie,” I complained later that day, shaking my head as I scrawled the last bit of my Defense essay on nonverbal spells. “He can be so incredibly nice one minute and then just drives me mental the next. Well, okay, not incredibly nice, but you know, passably tolerable and amusing.”

Carrie sighed, her cherry red lips forming a pout. “I don’t really know him that well,” she observed mildly and returned to her sketch of Sean Finnegan. I tried to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Carrie was one of my closest friends at Hogwarts, a little more in name than in action and a little more for her sake than mine. We had found each other in our third year due to a mutual lack of a social life and ever since then I had been, well, stuck with her.

Pause. That sounds bad when put like that but I didn’t mean for it to. Carrie was lovely, she really was. I loved her to death, or something very much like death but maybe not that permanent. I loved her to a History of Magic induced stupor. But she had this inability to, well, conform. Everything had to stand out with Carrie. She dressed like a “steampunk hooker” and I only say that because I’m quoting her verbatim and have no idea what it means. James Potter was, like all the things she avoided, too mainstream for Carrie to process.

My other friends, whom I was much closer to, didn’t really like Carrie very much but luckily the only time I saw her was during Monday morning free periods and in the Gryffie dorm before bed. This time was mostly spent complaining about Potter, not so much because I’m self-obsessed, but because if I didn’t I would be regaled with details of, simply put, things beyond my comprehension and comfort level.

Case in point: Sean Finnegan.

Carrie was obsessed with Sean Finnegan, a Slytherin seventh-year the very thought of whom was enough to metaphorically impregnate her. Ever since she had been paired up with him on that fateful day back in third year, she had become oblivious to life beyond Sean. I’m not going to talk about him right now, mostly because Carrie would sense us discussing him and then where would we be.

“It’s just exasperating,” I now replied, staring at the very graphic drawing she was making in which her boobs most definitely were a lot perkier than in actuality. “I want him to stay consistent, or at least retain some form of consistency as he waxes and wanes.”

“You’re really poetic, did you know that? Just kick him or something,” Carrie offered helpfully as she rifled through her many pockets for a crayon.

“Yeah,” I agreed mindlessly. “I just might. Carrie, what are you drawing?”

Carrie grinned, tugging at her fiery braids. “It’s a dream that I had about Sean and –“

Oh boy.

The thing about Carrie’s dreams is that they are incredibly sexual. Now I’m all for sexual things and such when the mood strikes, but when you’re not getting any, it’s not fun to have to live vicariously through your weird friend’s disgusting desires.

As I was sitting at the Gryffie table the next day pondering this and my sorrowed sexless fate, I was ambushed by the last person I need to be ambushed by when I’m pondering my sorrowed sexless fate.

“You got that essay done then?” Potter inquired, his long limbs all up in my business.

“Ugh, yes, go away,” I groaned, lowering my head down on the table to avoid looking at his metaphorically hideous face.

“Ugh, no, I need to copy something off of you,” he slid his fingers under my arms in an attempt to steal my work. I yelped as I felt his touch. Attractive, I know.

He smirked as usual. “Oh good, for a second there I thought you were going to be dramatic about this. God forbid.” I stuck my tongue at him in rebuttal. Even more attractive.

Remember my sorrowed sexless fate? ‘Tis no longer a mystery, eh?

“I’m not copying it all, I just need a look at your conclusion,” Potter reassured me as he thumbed through the rolls of parchment on the table.

“It doesn’t matter,” I shook my head. “I’m just trying to give you as hard a time as you give me.”

“Kinky,” he grinned, his eyes glinting evilly. I rolled my eyes for about the hundredth time that day. There was no way this was good for my optical health. “Well I think I have what I need so my apologies but I must excuse myself.”

“You’re welcome,” I added sardonically as he gathered his things, leaving mine all disheveled and out of order. He winked back at me as he left.

Cue: eye roll.

“For someone who claims to dislike him so much, you spend a fair amount of time with James Potter.”

I looked up from organizing my haphazard stuffs to see Noah settling down next to me.

Noah Fleming was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed heartthrob, lusted after by almost all girls and even certain guys. On Hogwarts’ unofficial list of hotties, Noah held a solid second place to James Potter. So, naturally, one can assume that we became platonic friends long before he was attractive. Oh, self-deprecation.

Anyway, Noah was currently sending me a questioning glance. Breaking through my inner monologue, I put on my signature defensive face. “I’m not trying to spend time with him or anything. He needed my homework.”

“Well don’t give him it,” Noah muttered, gazing longingly at the table. “When is it time for lunch again?”

“You’re early, and I already gave him it.”

Noah rolled his eyes at me. Gosh, so much eye-rolling going on around these parts.

“Because you are hungry, I will not sue you for stealing my patented eye roll,” I grinned, “what’s wrong with you?”

Noah sighed. “What else?”

Of course. Dom. Noah and Dom were famous for their breakups. Dominique Weasley was what you could call a female player who, once she had her wild way with a guy, would dump him for the next doomed soul. Noah Fleming however remained the only male on her list who had defiantly refused to sleep with her, choosing instead to “take it slow.” This resulted in a series of sexless hookups and breakups between the two, now spanning almost a year.

Noah glared at me. “First off, you are not cool enough to pull off “man.” Second of all, because I’m in love with her and I’m not going to let her become a pathological whore.”

The main reason I believe Noah should be higher up than James Potter on that ridiculous list is that he’s actually a decent human being.

“Ouch,” I winced. “Just let her catch you saying that and then not sleeping with her won’t be an issue.”

“You know what I mean,” Noah clarified. “I’m a nice guy.”

“A little too nice in my opinion,” I grinned. “Just shag her so well that she won’t want to leave you.”

That night I had a Carrie-esque graphic dream of my own. One that I would certainly not be sharing with Carrie. Or anyone for that matter.

…Except for, it would seem, every single person who’s going to be reading this intriguing piece of literature.

Suffice to say, since it has been the overarching theme of my narration so far, the graphic dream happened to involve James Potter. And disappointingly enough, violence wasn’t why it was disturbing.

I woke up with a start, my heart all aflutter and my skin strangely warm. As these things usually happen. I blinked and stared around me to make sure Potter wasn’t really there and that I wasn’t a victim of some strange, sleepwalking sexual assault disorder that would explain his unhinged behavior toward me. Check.

My neck burned, turning into what I could swear was a deep and rich shade of scarlet. Yours would too, if you had sleep-witnessed yourself doing unspeakable things to your oftentimes mortal enemy. Especially if dream-you had, in not so many words, expressed a healthy appreciation of said unspeakable acts.

I turned my pillow over to its cool side, hoping to derail my neck from reaching boiling temperature. As I lay back in bed, I decided that this Freudian path my subconscious had chosen to take would in no way hamper the way I viewed the real, frustratingly annoying James Messy-Haired Potter.

But apparently I have no principles, or any kind of will to argue with loopy German psychoanalysts, because the next morning when Potter appeared before me, my cheeks immediately approached code red.

“Why is your hair so wet?” I countered to disguise my obvious discomfort at his presence.

He groaned and settled down at the Gryffie table, dumping his dripping possessions next to poor old moi. “Quidditch practice and it’s pouring like hell,” he grunted irritably. “We’re playing the Puffs next weekend.”

“Huh,” I said in way of a reply, “that should be an easy one.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Not when your captain plays by the book.”

Clarification. James Potter, despite being the most desired and popular boy at Hogwarts, was shockingly not the Gryffie Quidditch captain. This was mostly due to his complete disregard for the rules of said game which led to him fouling every which way during matches. It’s not that he wasn’t smart enough to know he was in the wrong. Aggression was just secretly in his nature, and resurfaced the moment he touched a broom and spotted a Slytherin.

It probably didn’t help much that Albus Potter was captain.

“Can you blame Albus?” I snorted extremely sensually. “I’d say if we lose, it’ll be ninety-nine percent your fault. You foul every which way during matches.”

“Surely not every which way!” Potter widened his eyes and smacked his heart in mockery. “I know what I do during matches, and it’s only because I’m frustrated. You don’t know what frustration is like, Fields. It makes one do crazy things.”

I rolled my eyes, and so started our eye-rolling fest. “I know what frustration is, Potter. I feel it every time I look at you.”

Potter’s eyebrows raised in unison. “Oh really? How frustrated do I make you feel?”

“Very,” I muttered, attempting to turn my attention back to the homework I’d been undertaking when he so rudely made me blush.

“We could solve this problem, you know,” he offered, helpfully grabbing my quill so I paid him full notice.

“What the hell are you talking about?” My ears turned pink as I comprehended his implication.

Potter grinned. “Fields, don’t act dumb.”

“Well, then I must be dumb because I have no idea what you’re talking about and this essay is still due tomorrow, Potter.”

“Fiesty Fields,” he laughed his barking laugh and tossed me my quill. “I’ll annoy you later, since this essay’s due tomorrow and all. You’re welcome.”

I sighed with relief as he sauntered away.

“And hey, Fields?”

My head whipped around so fast, I heard a legitimate crick in my neck.

“What now, Potter?”

He grinned as he walked backwards, his chameleon eyes twinkling.

“You’re coming to the match,” he called, “no matter how many essays are due the next day.”

“Why should I come?” I asked quizzically, confusing clouding my mind.

“Because,” his smile widened, “I’ll be fouling every which way and it’ll be incredibly frustrating for you.”

Naturally, Potter was right and it was an incredibly frustrating game to watch from the sidelines.

Personally, I hate those observers that yell rude “suggestions” at players from the bleachers. Like they can do any better, munching on their Bertie Bott’s and cowering in their many layers of wool as the weather took its toll on the soaked and wretched players. But that rainy Saturday, I found myself cursing into the wailing wind as the Puffs held a solid fifty point lead over us. Mostly because, score be damned, everything was really very wet.

The problem, as always, were the Potters.

Albus Potter, his glasses magicked to stay on his nose, was furiously flying over to his brother James as the latter committed yet another shockingly nonchalant foul, considering he was a seeker and had no business grabbing beaters’ bats whatsoever. Meanwhile, the unmanned goal hoops were in serious danger of receiving some halfhearted Puff goals, as our keeper was more focused on attempting to keep a major Potter brawl from ensuing.

This was, by now, a fairly common occurrence and, as Gryffies hauntingly reminded themselves, the sole reason for our disqualification in last year’s tournament. History, it seemed, was about to repeat itself.

“What the fuck does he think he’s doing?” Abigail groaned from her seat beside me, clutching at her Gryffie scarf so tight it was a choking hazard. “Does he really have such a huge problem with authority that he can’t put a bleeding sock in it and CATCH THE DAMN SNITCH ALREADY?”

Abigail Wood, daughter of the great Oliver Wood, was one of those rare genetic anomalies within the Wood family who loved Quidditch but couldn’t play worth a Knut. To make for this then, Abigail spent a majority of her time critiquing those who could actually remain airborne long enough to make the team. Her current predicament was that James Potter was, as she so politely phrased it, “a fucking wanker” on the pitch.

Funny, how James Potter ruined the hopes of all whose paths he crossed.

“He’s doing what he does every single time he plays,” I retorted, a little bored of the hullaballoo people made over this very common occurrence. “I don’t even know why you expect anything different.”

The crowd seemed to agree with me, but acted a lot more like Abigail. Boos and hisses encircled me as I sat down. Apparently standing was a sign of loyalty.

Abigail groaned again, throwing her face into her hands. “I’m going to fucking kill him, Lyra. I’m not kidding. He’s ruining any chances of Gryffies ever being able to show our faces on a Quidditch pitch.”

“That’ll be easy, because you’re most definitely not the height of a munchkin. Could you be any more dramatic about this?” I sighed, thumbing through my Potions essay to check for grammatical errors while trying to keep it dry in the erratic rain.

“Could you be a bigger fucking nerd right now?” Abigail glared at me. “Anyway, you’re American, you don’t get pride.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

The crowd roared and I whirled around just in time to see Albus Potter land a wildly aimed punch on his brother’s nose, sending him flying from his broom and hurling down to the ground.

“Fuck,” Abigail whispered, her eyes wider than a house-elf’s.

Fuck was right.

Disclaimer: I don't own Oedipus. Sophocles can have him. The chapter title comes from the song "Stubborn Love" by The Lumineers. Basically anything you recognize is not mine. I have no possessions ever.

(A/N: So I'm back. Put down the pitchforks. I know you all are probably like, why this story? We want LEMONADE. But trust me I'm working on Lemonade super duper hard and it'll be back on track before you can say Quidditch. Or it might take a reasonable amount of time. So hopefully you all liked this chapter? Let me know through that handy little box down below!)